


I love him

by Nickygp



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous!John, Jealous!Sherlock, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, angst with happy ending, self hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:46:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nickygp/pseuds/Nickygp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You love him, but he doesn't know.<br/>You love him, but he's out of reach.<br/>You love him, but it's too late. He's married now</p><p>You love him, but he must not know.<br/>You love him but he doesn't feel that way, at least you don't think.</p><p>But it doesn't matter... or at least that's what you try to tell yourself</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've been wanting to write this fic for a while. I hope you enjoy it!  
> Mary isn't pregnant here,and she'll basically just be mentioned, because I don't particularly like her and did not wish to spend too much time writing her.

The door clicked loudly in the silent room. The moonlight softly brushed the back of a black leather chair, adding a sadistic romanticism to the room. A violin was perched on the windowsill, and a myriad of papers, lists, and wedding dress drawings covered the floor and the wall.

The door opened to reveal a shabby looking Sherlock Holmes. His hair was ruffled, and it was clear he had frantically ripped open the sleeves of his shirt, savagely tearing the fabric in the process. He looked paler than usual, and an unattractive red adorned his watery eyes. His lips were roughly pursed, as he tried to control his trembling hands.

He felt nauseous and cold. His palms and his chest ached terribly, making it harder to breathe, which in turn made him more lightheaded. His throat felt dry and itchy with a greedy need for nicotine. He threw his coat, which he had been holding with his left hand, to the floor as he moved towards the bookcase. He began throwing books to the ground as he desperately searched for his packet of cigarettes.

He gave a relieved sigh as he grasped a four-packet box, wrapped in plastic paper. He ripped the plastic open as he moved towards the window, which he forcibly opened. He lit a cigarette and took the first drag. He exhaled slowly as he felt a blast of cold air hit his face.

Soon he was lighting a second cigarette, and then a third. He kept at it, until the first pack was nothing but an empty box. His head hung low, and his arms were tense. He opened a second pack, and brought a new cigarette to his mouth; He could feel the bitter taste of smoke and tears.

He felt hollow and numb, the cold air barely registering in his system. He leaned his cheek against the half-opened window, trying to catch his breath and clear his mind. But it was impossible; all he could think of was John, John, _John_.

John standing in from of the guests as he waited for Mary to walk in; Sherlock standing next to him, a sense of dread looming over him. John’s face lighting up as Mary walked down the aisle. John saying _I do_ , driving a knife through Sherlock’s heart; Mary doing the same, sealing Sherlock’s death sentence.  John taking Mary in his arms to dance, whipping Sherlock with every step and watching him bleed to death.

He hit his fist against the window, making the window screech loudly. He repeated the movement again and again, hoping that the pain in his hand would distract him. But as the thought grew louder so did the strength of his punches.

Sherlock registered a loud noise and a sharp, stabbing pain in his right arm. He opened his eyes to find the window shattered; the fragments that were still attached to it were covered in crimson, red blood. He looked down and saw an ugly, long, rough piece of glass sticking out of his arm. He grasped it and pulled it out slowly, the blood rushing out of the wound. 

He moved towards the kitchen at a leisurely pace, taking sick pleasure in the feel of his warm blood seeping out of his body.  It felt like a small physical representation of what he had felt today.He opened a wooden cabinet and took out a small, white kit, placing it on top of the kitchen table. He opened it with one hand, inspecting its contents. He suddenly froze, before quickly pulling out his phone.

_Baker Street. Require your assistance- SH_

He thumbed over the send button, feeling the cold hard metal. He looked at the screen with a frown, and moved his finger to press the delete button. There was no point in sending such a useless message. John would not answer, not anymore. Not when he had a wife to take care of and a sex holiday to attend to.

Sherlock was now just a memory from the past. A disposable object that had served its purpose. He was the bastard that had broken John Watson’s heart by lying to him. He was the monster that plagued John Watson’s nightmares. He was the idiot that had missed his chance.

But had there really ever been a chance? He was nothing, nothing but a lie. He had hidden himself under the silver armor of his cold mind, but if one were to take that away, what was he really? A clueless, childish man who could no nothing but cause hurt and that needed help every step of the way. Indeed, if one were to take away his cases and John, he’d be nothing but a shadow; always in the background and easy to forget.

He would never be what John needed, because he’d never be enough. He would only be able to provide worry and anger. The cases would eventually not be enough. Sherlock would become too much to bear, unlike Mary; perfect, soft, loving Mary. Yes, she was better suited to make John happy, and that was all that mattered. But this thought didn’t help dull the aching pain in his chest. He was a selfish man, after all.

He cleaned the wound and put a bandage on top of it, briefly wondering if there were any remaining pieces of glass inside his arm. He knew he should check, had done so before during his time away, but he couldn’t be bothered as his mind could not stop thinking about Mary and John.

What did he enjoy? Did he like to feel her soft, plush lips around his cock? Did he like to take her apart, piece by piece, the way Sherlock so desperately wanted to be taken by John? Did he ever think of Sherlock when kissing Mary?

Sherlock clenched his fists, forcing himself to think of something – anything- else. He couldn’t let that thought take hold, for that would lead to vain hope and crushing pain.

He needed another cigarette

But the cigarettes were not enough. They had stopped being enough the minute John went down on one knee, leaving Sherlock alone.

Sherlock made his way to his room, leaving the lights off. He walked slowly, taking in the darkness. He kneeled gently and reached under the bed with his uninjured arm, his fingers grasping the black, small leather case in mere seconds. He dragged it out, carefully opening it.

 He caressed its contents like one caresses a lover.  It had been so long, he had forgotten how the raw need felt in his veins, in his blood, in his mind. That unyielding need had disappeared as it had been replaced with a need for John. His mind had been consumed by John’s praises, by the way John licked his lips when he looked at Sherlock, by the way his eyes sparked every time he saw Sherlock deduce a murder, by the way he laughed- that laughter that only belonged to him. 

Would Mary get to hear that laugh? Would she take that away too?  Would she get to hear John’s moans and groans? What would they sound like? Would she get to hear her name be whispered as a caress as he had dreamed John whispering his own name?

Sherlock took out the syringe, quickly preparing a hit. His ears rang, and his heartbeat was frantic. He ripped his shirt, successfully destroying what was left of it, and made a tourniquet around his arm. The room was dark, but he could still make out the pale, green veins popping out due to the pressure.

What would John say? Would he be angry, if he were here? He wanted him to be angry. He wanted John to shake him, to tell him how wrong this was. He wanted John to care. He wanted John to see what he had become; how pitiful and embarrassingly sentimental he had turned, all because of John.  He wanted John to stop him, to blame him, to kiss him, to ravage him, to fuck him. He wanted anything John was willing to give- everything. He wanted _everything_.

He felt the needle pierce his skin, and the drug enter his system. He felt his grip loosen, and his heartbeat slow. He felt himself falling backwards, his back hitting the ground as the air left his lungs. He felt his thoughts scatter and slow down, soon dissolving into thin air. He felt his heart clench painfully one last time, and then nothing.

He felt nothing.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

John looked at his wife, who was sleeping next to him, a soft smile playing on his lips. He felt a pang of pain and he tightened his jaw.

It had to stop. He had to stop. He was married now, and to a beautiful woman at that. He was happy. He had to be happy.

But he wasn’t.

Dear God, he wasn’t. It was futile. There was nothing he could do to get Sherlock out of his system. The man had entered his life in a sudden flash of light, and he had stolen John’s very soul. But Sherlock, brilliant, perfect Sherlock, had never and would never feel that. He didn’t care for love. He didn’t need it, understand it, or crave it.

And John had tried to make himself move on. Oh, he had tried to rip his heart out of his chest. But he couldn’t get rid of Sherlock, not when the man had possessed his very being. Not even when he was dead had John stopped feeling the need to have him, to have the chance to tell him that he loved him.

Even now he could not quench the need to feel Sherlock’s lips on his, the need to run his hands through Sherlock’s hair. He felt a burning, primal desire to hear Sherlock scream his name as he claimed him.

And, oh god, he was getting hard by thinking of his best friend on his damn honey moon with his wife sleeping next to him. He felt a wave of shame wash over him as he got up, unable to stay next to Mary.

He exited the room, going to the balcony and leaning against the rail. He closed his eyes and breathed in, letting the warm weather seep into his pores. He didn’t like this weather; he preferred London’s colder one. He didn’t like how quiet it was; he missed the sound of Sherlock clattering around the house, making a mess everywhere he went, expecting John to clean it up.

He missed Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

A month. A month without hearing from John. A month without seeing his face or his smile. Sherlock had tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter, that he’d be just fine, that alone once more would protect him.

But it didn’t. Alone would never protect him anymore, not after life with John. He had thought of calling John after a week had passed- if he was honest he had thought about calling John every day- and so he had ended up throwing his phone against the wall, smashing it to pieces.

He did not want to see, every morning, that John hadn’t texted him. He did not need to be reminded that John was too busy or too disinterested to check on him. He didn’t want to think about how happy John must be with his new wife; He could not stand the thought of them eating together, laughing together, bathing together, sleeping together.

He had thought about it anyway.

He opened his computer, his long, skeletal fingers hovering over the keys. He had lost weight, he knew, probably because he had eaten no more than eight meals in the past four weeks.  His sustenance, for the past month, had been heroin, cigarettes, and cases.

He had contacted his old dealers again, and they had been more than happy to provide him with anything he asked. And, oh, he had asked. He’d do anything at this point to keep his mind from going back to John every few minutes.

The cases had helped too. He had solved an inane amount of cases in the last month. He had taken all of them, no matter how dull. Two murders, courtesy of Lestrade, had provided a rush of fresh air where his mind had been blissfully clear for a few hours. Most of the rest, however, he had been able to solve while high.

He hadn’t contacted Lestrade again,however, after that second murder for fear of the man noticing he was using again. Lestrade, as oblivious as he was, had noticed Sherlock’s worsening condition and had tried to get Sherlock to come with him for drinks to talk. But there was nothing to talk about; John was gone and no talking in the world was going to fix that. He did not want Lestrade’s pity or empathy; that would just be another blow to his crumbling reputation.

Still, despite the cases and the drugs, his mind had found time to focus solely on John.

He had thought of John’s sex holiday when he was too tired to control his mind. He had replayed John’s _I do_ over and over again while his mind helpfully reminded him that that perfection of a man would never be his, that the only reminder he had of that sweet, loyal, army doctor was an empty, red armchair which he had moved to his room in order to not see it and to keep people from seeing it, just in case their eyes could pollute it.

 Those were the times he used a slightly higher dosage.

 

He closed his computer with a groan. There were no cases, no distractions to relieve his weary mind. He stood up pacing back and forth, his fingers rubbing his temples roughly.  He came to a halt in front of the mirror, and took a look at himself. His skin was sickly pale, his cheekbones unnaturally pronounced, and he had dark bags under his eyes due to a lack of sleep.

He looked like a dead man walking, and he couldn’t help but smile- a twisted, horrid smile- at the sadistic truth embedded in the mirror. He took out his phone, his eyes never leaving the mirror.

“Yes?”

“Come as soon as possible”

The man at the other end of the line chuckled “The usual?”

“Obviously”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

John stood in his bedroom looking out the window, his jaw set and his eyes narrow. It had been too long since he had last seen Sherlock, too long since he had seen him rattling off deductions as adrenaline fueled his brilliant mind forward. It was becoming unbearable. Knowing that Sherlock was alive, that he was back in Baker Street solving crimes without him, made him want to tear out his skin and scream. 

He should be there with Sherlock, making sure he ate and slept after the adrenaline the case provided began to wear off. He needed to be there to ensure nothing would happen to Sherlock.

He needed to be here with his wife. He needed be here and love her, provide for her. Sherlock was a grown man who had been able to take care of himself for the past two years, leaving John to think he was dead, while he was doing god knows what.

John rested his forehead against the window as he breathed in deeply. He had promised himself never to think about that. It was all in the past now.But he couldn’t shake off the fear that this thought always produced. What if something did happen to Sherlock? He had no one protecting him now.

John shook his head and moved away from the window, going into the bathroom to take a shower and get ready for work. Sherlock was fine. He had to be. He knew he couldn’t be as reckless anymore. John stepped under the shower spray, fearing that that might just be wishful thinking.

He got dressed and ate quietly, his motions automatic and lifeless, taking no notice of Mary or her words as his thoughts were still on Sherlock.  He opened the door, knowing he had to go to work, but as he closed it he knew that there was no way in hell he was going to work until he made sure Sherlock was safe.

His brain screamed at him to go to work, to get himself together, to stop wanting a man that would never want him that way, and to get on with his life, especially now that he shared it with someone else.

His heart urged him to check on Sherlock, and if in the process he got to watch the man run around London again, well then his heart would be able to breathe properly again.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock sank back into the cushions, his muscles slack and his brain deliciously quiet. He could see a tall man, draped in black clothes, sitting on the edge of the coffee table looking at him with a slight frown.  

“You know, you generally pay before using the product”

Sherlock waived his hand, trying and failing to point. “Mantelpiece,” he closed his eyes and turned his head away from the man, not giving a damn about safety; the man could kill him for all he cared.

The man shook his head, remembering very well how Sherlock behaved when using, and turned to stand up. He approached the mantelpiece, and took a small, beige packet which clearly contained money. He took the money out and began to count, but suddenly stopped as the door swung open.

“Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson let me in-” John froze, looking at the stranger with confusion as a sense of trepidation filled his heart. “Who are you? Where’s Sherlock?”

John looked around, not waiting for an answer; his eyes widened as he took in the form of the limp detective sprawled on the couch. “Sherlock!”

He ran towards the man, his heart drumming wildly as images of Sherlock sprawled on the pavement, blood everywhere, flashed through his mind and left him breathless. He took Sherlock’s pulse, his hand shaking as he fought back the wave of fear that threatened to drown him. He exhaled slowly as he felt a pulse under his fingers; it was slow and weak, but it was still there.

“What did he take?” John’s steel cold voice cut through the tense air, making the man shiver slightly. There was something about John, something dark and vicious, that kept the man’s boldness at bay.

“Answer the question,” John barked, his nostrils flared.

“The usual”

John whirled around, his back rammed straight and his chin held high; his military instincts clearly kicking in. He moved towards the man as a hunter moves to take down his pray. He grabbed the man’s arm and bent it backwards as he slammed his head against the mantelpiece, making the man whimper in pain.

“Listen up you git, you will _never_ come near Sherlock again.” John put pressure on the man’s arm, making him scream without mercy. “Are we clear?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good, now get out.”

The man hurried out, tripping and catching himself at the last minute in his daze.

Sherlock stirred and draped his hand over his head. The sleeve of his nightgown dropped to his elbow, revealing a white suture plastered on Sherlock’s arm. John’s eyes narrowed as he moved closer to inspect Sherlock’s arm. He delicately touched the man’s arm and took the suture off, holding his breath as he was greeted with a long, deep gash. It had clearly gotten infected, judging by the traces of pus he saw at the edges of the wound, and thus was still in the process of healing.

John looked down at Sherlock, taking in his sorry appearance. He was so pale and still that, had he not be taking Sherlock’s pulse at that very moment, he could have sworn the man was dead. John began panting as the memories of Sherlock’s cold headstone sprang into his mind. He had come to know that headstone too well.

“Sherlock… Sherlock” He whispered, his voice a small plea.

Sherlock turned his face towards John and opened his bleary eyes. His brow furrowed as John’s image cleared, and then he chuckled darkly, “not even when I’m high can I get you out of my mind. You truly are remarkable.”

“What?”

Sherlock ignored John’s question, raising his hand to softly cup John’s cheek, “amazing… I can feel you… like if you were here.” He smiled brokenly, “I should write… amount… need it for next time.” He tried getting up, but failed as his arms felt too heavy at the moment to lift his own weight.

“stop it, just,” John took a deep breath as he looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “Why did you do it?” His voice was low, anger coloring his tone.

Sherlock looked away, still very disoriented. “Had to stop thinking about John,” Sherlock’s words were slurred as the man tried to fight off sleep, “clearly failed.”

John felt his heart skip a beat as a hundred different thoughts raced through his head. What was that supposed to mean? Was all this his fault? A sense of dread filled John’s heart as he watched Sherlock’s lip tremble and his eyes fall shut as he gave in to sleep.

But how? Why would Sherlock relapse because of John? There was no logical explanation, and John’s frustration grew as he could not understand Sherlock’s reasoning. This wasn’t like Sherlock, so what had changed?

Sherlock had been acting differently since his return, he seemed much more open and emotionally alive, but John was sure that that was because he was trying to make up for the hell he had made John live through.

He had also been afraid of things changing, John knew, but surely he must have known nothing was going to change? It was ludicrous to think John wouldn’t be there, ready to help, because he would use any excuse to see Sherlock, to be near him. How could things change when he hadn’t stopped thinking about Sherlock in a month?

Oh

He hadn’t seen Sherlock in a month.

But Sherlock knew he had been in his honeymoon.  It’s not like he could come visit, but he had texted him and Sherlock hand’t answered. He had waited a week after his honeymoon had ended to contact Sherlock because he had had to try to be a good husband and, at least for a week, not choose spending time with Sherlock over spending time with Mary.

John caressed Sherlock’s curls as he sighed. Sherlock had to know John was going to come eventually. He didn’t have that much self-control when it came to Sherlock. He buried his face in his hands as waves of remorse washed through him.

Perhaps, if he had come a few days earlier, this wouldn’t be happening.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I am so sorry for taking this long. The past month has honestly been crazy and took a big toll on me.  
> I'll be updating regularly again though.  
> I hope you enjoy!

Sherlock woke up with a pounding head and a dry throat. He sat up, rubbing his temples with a soft groan. He shivered and grabbed the blanket, which had been covering him until he sat up, and wrapped himself in it, thankful for the warmth. He didn’t remember taking a blanket, but then again he had been high, so there was a possibility he had done it and just couldn’t remember it.

“So you finally woke up”

Sherlock’s breath caught as he slowly turned to face the kitchen. John stood, leaning against the wall, with a cup of tea in his hand.  He looked as stunning as ever, making Sherlock’s mouth water. Sherlock cleared his throat, wondering if he was still riding off the high or if John had finally managed to break his mind, now appearing as a full fledge figure instead of just a constant voice in his head.

He remained quiet, unsure of what to do. Should he give in to his subconscious and start talking with thin air or should he ignore it and pretend his mind wasn’t this disgustingly desperate to see John?

John moved closer, placing the cup of tea in front of Sherlock.

“Drink,” John commanded.

Sherlock looked at him for a few seconds, marveling at the painful precision of his mind. However, John’s insistent glare made him remember that he was supposed to do something; right, drink the tea. But there was no tea to drink, so what was the point in complying? The dream would end once he couldn’t touch the cup, and he wasn’t sure he wanted this- whatever this was- to end.

“Drink, Sherlock,” John snapped, his eyes narrowing.

Sherlock finally complied, freezing when he realized the cup was very much real, and cups don’t move on their own, which meant this John was real; real and angry.  Sherlock hurried to drink as John’s glare turned colder, the warm liquid burning his dry throat. He placed the cup back on the coffee table, his fingers trembling slightly. He fisted his hands on his laps, not wanting John to see him in this state.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Sherlock shrugged, not meeting John’s eyes. John pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in deeply as he tried to control his rising anger.

“Christ, Sherlock, You can’t just stop eating because I’m not here to make sure you eat. You can’t starve yourself to death.”

“Eating is boring”

“I don’t care,” growled John. “I am not going to lose you because you decided to be childish.” John sat down on the wooden chair near the desk, making Sherlock’s palms ache as he longed to close the distance, and threw a syringe on the coffee table. Sherlock looked at it and then back at John, the memories of that morning finally coming back to him with full force. He remained silent as he really saw no way out of this blunder.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Why are you using again, Sherlock?” spat John. Sherlock pursed his lips, stubbornly refusing to answer. “This morning, you sa-“

“This morning I was high. Whatever I said is irrelevant.”

“Well you said more than what you are saying now, so excuse me if that’s the explanation I go with.”

“I was bored.”

“Not an excuse, Sherlock.”

“I am not giving you an excuse; I am answering your question.”

“You’re lying to me. You are better than that.”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to end this pointless conversation. He could never- would never- tell John the truth; that he’d done it because anything was better than feeling the ghostly loneliness that haunted him now that John was gone, and that had prompted him to move John’s chair out of the living room.

“Well, clearly I’m not.”

John looked like he had been slapped. “Yes you are. Of course you are.”

“You should know by now John that I’ll never reach your expectations.”

John suddenly stood up from the wooden chair and moved to sit on the edge of the coffee table. “That’s not true, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt their knees brush and he fought the need to gasp. How pathetic was he that such a small thing could affect him so deeply. He felt his breathing increase slightly, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of how much he wanted John or because of the excruciating pain that settled in his chest as the knowledge that John was so close and yet was untouchable hit him yet again. That little voice which always reminded him that John had made his choice.

“And this is not even about expectations, Sherlock. This is about keeping yourself healthy and alive. You need to stop, _now_.”

“While I appreciate your interest John, I’m fine. There’s no need for you to worry.” Sherlock stood up and moved towards the window, his heart hammering in his chest. His palms ached terribly and he had to fight the urge to cry; something which had turned into a sick routine. He knew John was doing this out of some ridiculous sense of duty, but there truly was nothing John could do. Sherlock had lost him a long time ago, if he ever had him to begin with. “You should go. Your wife must be worried.”

As Sherlock was giving his back to John, he did not see the flash of hurt and anger that crossed John’s eyes. He did not feel when John moved closer and grabbed his uninjured wrist, swirling him around and pinning him to the window.

“Stop it,” John whispered with difficulty. “Stop trying to push me away when you know you need help.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help.”

“Because alone protects you, right?” growled John, pressing his body flush against Sherlock’s. “I’ve told you before, friends protect you.”

Sherlock’s breath shuddered, his brain halting as his body registered John’s delicious proximity. John froze, feeling the change in mood immediately. He tensed slightly, his eyes wide and searching. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt his body move on its own accord, his lips softly pressing against John’s.  John’s breath hitched and he parted his lips slightly in surprise. He suddenly jumped into action, kissing Sherlock back with a feverish urgency. He licked his way into Sherlock’s mouth. He bit the other man’s lower lip, feeling a rush of greedy lust when he heard an obscene moan rush out of those same plush lips.

Suddenly, John’s phone rang, startling them both and shattering the electric moment.

John pushed away, and took out his phone. “Yes? ... I know, I’m sorry. I told you I needed to check up on Sherlock.” He grimaced, his hand twitching slightly. “I know it’s late, Mary. I… I’ll be there soon.”

He ended the call with a sigh and turned to face Sherlock, whose head hung low; his face was covered in the shadows.

“Sherlock-”

“Shouldn’t you be going?”

“What?”

“Your wife is waiting for you,” he sneered.

“So? She can wait. We need to talk.”

Sherlock looked at him in confusion, was John planning to further humiliate him? To give him that dull speech of thanks, but no thanks? “There’s nothing to talk about. I kissed you- the drug is probably still in my system- but you have nothing to worry about. It will not happen again. Now if you’ll excuse me-” Sherlock tried to walk away, his heart in his mouth. He was sure John would refuse to see him again, now that he had broken that unspoken line.  John was a married man for goodness sake. The last thing he needed was to deal with the idiotic infatuation of his best friend.

John stopped him by gripping his forearm. “Did it…” John seemed to be struggling to find the right words “Did it mean something?” He whispered.

Sherlock’s lower lip trembled. He wanted to tear out his heart and scream _of course it did! It meant everything, because I am in love with you._

“Did it? Because it-”

“No” John’s grip on Sherlock’s arm tightened as he heard those words. He looked away, his eyes cast down in broken disappointment, which confused Sherlock. Why did he look sad? Was that not what he wanted to hear? Did he want to hear yes? Sherlock stopped that train of thought with an iron fist. He was merely projecting his own desires onto John.

“Right,” John cleared his throat, “Good, yeah.” He loosened his grip and moved away, walking towards the table and picking up the syringe. “I’ve checked the flat, and I’ve informed Mycroft of your relapse.”

“I said I’m fine,” snapped Sherlock.

“No, Sherlock, you are not.” John rubbed his eyes tiredly, “I need to go. Please don’t do anything stupid. I’ll try to be back soon.”

John left the room and, as the front door slammed shut, Sherlock collapsed, falling on his knees as sobs wrecked his weakened body. To have tasted the sweetness of John’s lips and knowing he’d never taste them again was simply unbearable. He eventually got up and took a slow breath. He made his way into his room, kneeling to raise one of the floorboards. It was impossible for John to have checked there.

He smiled, thanking heavens for small mercies. There, in the dark, was a syringe and a white liquid solution in a shiny, little bottle.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, sorry, sorry. I have not had the time to publish chapter 5. I'm horrible.

Mycroft swept into the flat, umbrella in hand; his eyes flickered from place to place as he looked for his brother or clues of his whereabouts.  He quickly strode towards Sherlock’s room as the living room was deserted. He opened the bedroom door, his mouth contorting into a scowl as he took in the sight of his brother sprawled on his bed, an empty syringe resting next to him.

Sherlock had his face covered with his hand, the moon’s soft light making him look ghastly pale. Mycroft moved closer to the bed and forcefully poked Sherlock’s side with the tip of his umbrella. The limp man grunted and moved to give his back to his brother, mumbling under his breath.

“What did you take?” Mycroft asked in an ice cold voice, he was past the point of niceties.

“That’s none-“

Mycroft loomed closer, grabbing Sherlock’s face with his free hand and turning the man to face him. Mycroft’s face was composed as usual, but his eyes were two fiery pits and his hand was unyielding. He could feel Sherlock's labored breath on his face, as the man tried to break free from his hold.“How long?”

“Can’t you tell?”

Mycroft released him and looked away, trying to hide the swirl of pain and anger he was feeling at the moment. Sherlock rubbed his jaw as he looked straight at Mycroft, frustrated at his current inability to read him due to the haze his mind was in.

“I warned you, brother.”

“And you were right. Is that what you came here to hear? You were bloody right. Now leave.”

“Believe me, brother mine, this is one of the few times I wish I hadn’t been right.”

Sherlock, who was still lying down, remained silent and looked away; this was exactly why they never talked about things like this. They were not built for these sorts of things.

Mycroft sat down on the bed and awkwardly rested his arm on Sherlock’s shoulder. Now that the anger had started to fade, he felt the need to comfort his brother in some way. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock closed his eyes as a few treacherous tears dampened   his cheeks. Generally, he would have moved Mycroft’s hand by now and told him to piss off, that he didn’t need his pity, but he was still riding off the high and he was broken; thus, he allowed himself to bask in the small comfort his brother’s presence brought him- not that they’d ever talk about that.

Mycroft silently began to stroke Sherlock’s curls like he did when they were children. Neither one said anything, and so he kept doing it until Sherlock fell asleep. Mycroft got up softly, not wanting to disturb the sleeping man. He looked down at Sherlock and sighed. How he wished things were simple again, as simple as when they were kids and the biggest thing his younger brother had to worry about was whether or not he’d rule the seven seas.  He picked up the syringe with graceful fingers and walked out of the room, taking out his phone. “Get me Doctor Watson as soon as possible.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------

“You know, this whole kidnapping thing is getting old.”

“It was the fastest way to talk to you.”

“You could have called.”

“I’m afraid this is a topic I’d rather discuss in person.” Mycroft gestured towards a dark, brown leather armchair placed near the fire and parallel to where Mycroft was sitting. “Please, sit.”

John gave him a long, hard look before sitting down. “Is this about Sherlock?”

“Isn’t it always?”

“I searched his-”

“He’s rather good at hiding drugs, Doctor Watson. He’s had many years to hone that skill.”

John closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose; he could feel the fear and rage beginning to grip him. “Was he-”

“High when I found him last night? Of course.”

John gripped his armchair, his knuckles turning white. “Why is he doing this? He was fine a week ago when-“

“Fine? John he hasn’t been fine in more than two years.”

John froze, his throat going dry. “What do you-“

“His two years away were not a walk in the park, as I’m sure he’s told you. That and the fact that, against my advice, he decided to involve himself in matters of the heart-“

“What do you mean?”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

John rolled his eyes. “Honestly, what is it with you two? No, Mycroft, it is not obvious to me.”

Mycroft remained quiet for a few seconds, gauging the situation. “He fell in love.”

The air rushed out of John’s lungs as his brain short-circuited. “That’s impossible; he doesn’t feel things that way.”

“He’s always been more than capable of feeling, John. He just doesn’t know how to control it, thus he prefers to shut it all off.”

John felt his heart burn with jealousy. He wanted to tear to pieces the woman that had managed to capture Sherlock’s heart and that had broken it. He felt the urge to kiss and mark Sherlock, so that the world would know the man was his and that they were not allowed to come near him. He wanted to lock Sherlock somewhere he couldn’t fall in love with anyone that wasn’t him. He wanted to consume the man, to mend his heart, to sing him praises and adore his beautiful body. He also realized that this was more than a bit not good, especially since he was a married man and he should not be having these thoughts about his best friend, but there was nothing he could do to change it.

“Who is it?”

Mycroft straightened in his seat with a baffled expression on his face. “You don’t know?” His eyes went wide as he said “You never knew.” He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. It was all becoming clear now.

“For goodness’ sake, tell me who-“

“You.”

John stopped talking abruptly, as if Mycroft had splashed him with a bucked full of ice cold water. “What?”

“It’s you John. It’s always been you.”

“That’s… impossible.”

“Doctor Watson, it is not that hard to see. He jumped for you. He tarnished his reputation for you. He took months of torture to keep you safe. Then he came back with the single hope of resuming his life with you. He planned your wedding. He, as far as I’ve been informed, declared his love for you at your own wedding. He began using once you got married.  Honestly, John, just connect the dots.”

John looked like he had seen death itself. “He was tortured?”

“Did you not know?”

“No, he didn’t-“

“ do you know anything that happened during those two years?”

“Only that he was dismantling Moriarty’s network. I thought he had been solving crimes to jail them or-”

“I think this is something you need to discuss with him, not with me.”

John nodded his mind racing in too many directions as he scrambled to process this new information. This changed everything. “Are you sure he… you know.”

“I know my brother very well, John. Besides, who do you think taught him to deduce?”

“Right, but I’m just…”

“What?”

“It doesn’t make sense Mycroft.” John clenched his hands and took a deep breath. “It doesn’t make sense for him to love _me.”_

“Love doesn’t make sense. Most of the time, people love those that compliment them well or that make them happy. You, John, compliment my brother perfectly. You make him better and have taught him the meaning of love and friendship. And, although I still believe it is a weakness one can do without, sentiment has, for the most part, been exactly what Sherlock needed.”  

John felt a giddy feeling spreading through him like wildfire. He had never felt this elated.  Knowing that Sherlock might just love him had his heart beating out of control.  He got up and walked towards the door, not being able to wait a moment longer to talk to Sherlock.

“John,” called Mycroft. “I once said you could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever.” Mycroft’s eyes turned deadly. “I’d rather not see the latter occur.”

John frowned, unable to comprehend Mycroft’s words. Surely he knew that he loved his brother and, now that John knew, there was nothing that could keep them apa-

Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love writing scenes where we see some brotherly love, so I had to write this.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgive me, I've been overwhelmed with work. 
> 
> hopefully the smut will be good enough and make up for my shortcomings.

John opened the door, his steps muffled by the sound of a violin. Sherlock stood facing the window, his body swaying with the mournful music. John stood rooted to the spot as he was entranced by Sherlock’s graceful movements and the heartbreaking tone. He felt a pang of pain as he realized that Sherlock was mourning _him_.

The sound of the door closing alerted Sherlock of John’s presence, knowing the man’s movements far too well. He stopped playing abruptly, placing the violin back on the windowsill.  He felt horribly exposed; he had, unaware of John’s presence, allowed the man to listen to his heart as he always allowed his treacherous emotions to filter through when everything became too much to bear. He was afraid of what John was going to say. Would he realize the truth? Would he leave?

“You should sleep at some point, you know.”

“I can’t sleep,” said Sherlock softly, still refusing to look directly at John.

John moved closer, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own. Sherlock looked at him with surprise, but said nothing as he privately welcomed the touch. John began walking towards Sherlock’s bedroom, holding Sherlock’s hand tightly.

Sherlock’s heart thrummed in his chest, his breathing becoming quick and shallow. He felt his stomach flutter and his knees go weak. Why was John still holding his hand? They didn’t do this. There was always the occasional touch; a pat in the back, a gentle squeeze, a small brush, which Sherlock greedily took as he craved for more, but there was no hand holding.  It confused and excited Sherlock, and he had to force himself to calm down. It meant nothing. It had to mean nothing. John was just taking him to his bedroom.

John opened the door as he released Sherlock’s hand, and let Sherlock go in first. “Sit,” He said softly.

Sherlock sat, squirming slightly on the bed. This felt far too intimate, far too real. But it wasn’t, at least not for John. Did he even realize what he was doing to Sherlock?

John crouched in front of him with his eyes closed and his hands clenched. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry for not realizing before.”

“I don’t understand-“

John touched Sherlock’s chest, placing his palm right where his heart was. He could feel Sherlock’s elevated heart rate. “Did it mean something?”

Sherlock remained silent, not understanding John’s words. But then his eyes widened as he remembered John asking the same thing the night before. His mouth turned dry as he scrambled for an answer. What did he want to hear? Had he realized? Had he come to tell Sherlock he wasn’t interested?

“Sherlock, please,” John whispered. “I need to know.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but answer at the soft plea. “Yes.”

It was barely a whisper, but that was all John needed to hear. He raised himself up and kissed Sherlock chastely. Sherlock froze for a second, feeling his heart leap, and then he grabbed John by the lapels of his shirt and pulled him down, forcing the man to straddle him, as he kissed him back with a feverish need. Their lips and tongues met over and over with bruising force. Sherlock pulled away first, gasping for air, but John refused to stop kissing him and so he moved down to suck at his neck. Sherlock whimpered and clutched John’s shoulders as he felt John’s tongue and teeth tease him relentlessly.  His head was swimming in a sensory overload, his cock already half hard.

“John… John w-wait”

John pulled away reluctantly, his lips wet and puffed from kissing. Sherlock felt an intense need to devour him, but he held himself back, knowing he had to stop this before it went too far. “ You don’t have to do this.”

John frowned, his face falling. “I thought this is what you wanted, I-“

“But you don’t-“

John rubbed himself against Sherlock, making the other man gasp as he felt John’s insistent erection. “Do you honestly think I’d kiss you if I didn’t want this? Sherlock, I’ve wanted you since you deduced me that day at the hospital.” He sucked Sherlock’s earlobe, and then whispered “Do you know how many nights I’ve pleasured myself, thinking of you?”

Sherlock shuddered, unable to suppress a needy moan. “What about Mary?” He knew he’d regret saying this for the rest of his life, and that he’d hate his heart for not letting him enjoying this one precious moment, but he couldn’t be selfish with John Watson. He couldn’t let him ruin his life, because of a moment of lust.

“She was never you.” John said as he caressed Sherlock’s cheek. He lowered his glance. “I tried, Sherlock. I tried to be…  I am just tired of living in a world where I can’t have you.”  John rested his face on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ll have to talk to her, let her know that… I just can’t keep pretending, Sherlock. I can’t pretend my marriage is working when I’m in love with someone else. It is not fair to anyone.”  John kept his eyes closed. It was easier to tell the truth, both to Sherlock and himself, while shrouded in darkness. It was as if the darkness could cover his sins.

Sherlock’s grip on John’s hips tightened, his eyes widening in surprise. He felt his mind short-circuit as he replayed John’s words.

“Sherlock, are you all right?”

“You said… You love me.”

“Yes,” John’s frown deepened. “I don’t-“

“You love me.”

John sucked in his breath as Sherlock’s words broke his heart. “Of course I love you. Sherlock you are the most brilliant, gorgeous, pretentious madman there is. How could I not love you?”

Sherlock kissed him with bruising force, fearing his heart might explode. He basked in the indescribable feeling blooming inside him, making him feel better than any high he'd ever experienced.

He pressed closer to John, wanting to kiss him deeper. John could tell Sherlock had little experience in this area, but his naiveté and enthusiasm inflamed John's arousal. He fumbled with Sherlock's shirt, eventually giving up and ripping it open. He ran his hands down Sherlock's chest as he devoured his mouth, biting the other man's lower lip.

He pushed Sherlock down, enjoying the feel of taught muscle and soft skin. He moved slightly up, grinding their hips together as he lowered himself to lick at Sherlock's left nipple. He softly blew over it and chuckled as he heard Sherlock's strangled gasp. Sherlock squirmed as he bit his lip, trying to keep himself from screaming in pleasure.

John moved to the other nipple, lavishing it as thoroughly as the first. He looked up at Sherlock through heavy lidded eyes and reached up to touch Sherlock's lips softly. "Don't... I want to hear you... Please."

Sherlock shivered as he heard those words. He had never been able to resist John, and so he let go, completely giving himself over to John, body and soul. He captured John's lips as the man gripped his trousers and dragged them down, making Sherlock's skin tingle as he felt the brush of the cold night air.

Sherlock touched John's groin with a desperation and want that made John buckle and groan. "Off, take these off."

 John pushed himself up, unbuckling his belt and pulling down both his trousers and his pants. Sherlock forgot how to breathe as he took in John's form. He was absolutely breathtaking. And the knowledge that he got to see John like this; naked, wiling, and fully aroused, made Sherlock want to weep with happiness.

 Sherlock's eyes hungrily roamed John's body, and he unconsciously licked his lips as he saw John's proudly erect member. His mouth watered as he imagined what it would feel like to take John in his mouth, and taste his manhood. Eventually he looked up, his eyes settling on the intricate scar visible on John's shoulder. He felt the strange need to touch it, to feel its texture, to taste it.

 Sherlock suddenly flipped them over clumsily, almost falling down in his attempt. He lowered himself and kissed John's scar softly, licking it after a few seconds, and looked up when he felt John tense up. Sherlock could tell John was not that comfortable with his scar, and Sherlock understood the feeling all too well. He kissed it once more, trying to convey all the love he felt in his touch, and smiled as he felt John run his hand through his curls.

Sherlock began trailing open mouthed kisses down John's torso. He stopped for a moment at John's hips, biting his left side softly. John squirmed and moaned, trying to get Sherlock to give his attention to John's straining cock. Sherlock smiled and buried his nose in John's crotch, greedily inhaling John's natural scent. John groaned, fisting his hands on the sheets to keep himself from buckling up.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock raised himself up slightly to lick the head of John's cock. He wanted to see how John reacted if he took him. Would he come undone? Sherlock's cock twitched at the thought. He kept giving small licks to John's length as he enjoyed the little sounds John made. He took John in his mouth cautiously, not wanting to gag. John, however, was unable to control his hips as they snapped up, seeking more of that deliciously wet heat. Sherlock contained his choking, in favor of pleasuring John. It felt strangely satisfying to have John thrust into his mouth. He wanted John to grab his hair and fuck his mouth, but he wasn't sure if John was amenable to that, and he had no idea how to ask.

 John thrust twice more, before biting his hand to keep himself from doing so. He didn't want to scare Sherlock, or make him uncomfortable. "Sorry," he whispered breathlessly.

 Sherlock ignored him as he kept his eyes on John while he bobbed his head up and down John's shaft. He had no technique, but the heat and the sight of Sherlock between his legs was enough to make John delirious with need.

 "Stop, stop," John said, pulling Sherlock's hair softly enough, in warning.

 Sherlock immediately pulled away, a flash of worry and hurt crossing his face.

"I don't want to come just yet. I want to enjoy you tonight," John said as he smiled at Sherlock and moved to kiss his worries away. John pushed Sherlock's ripped shirt down, moving his hands up and down Sherlock's back. And then, he froze.

 Sherlock tensed as John paled in his frozen state. "John?"

John ran his hands down Sherlock's back with a furrowed brow as he once again felt the ragged texture of what seemed to be a bundle of scars. Sherlock's face fell as he realized what had happened. He pulled away, and refused to look at John; the magic of the moment had been broken.

“Who did this to you?” John’s voice was low and angry. There was a coldness and utter hatred in his tone that made Sherlock shiver, even if he knew those particular emotions weren’t directed at him. “When did this happen?”

 “When I was… away, they captured me on a few occasions. They wanted information, which I didn’t have. But, of course, they wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Sherlock cleared his throat, his hands twitching involuntarily. “I was supposed to come back a few weeks earlier, but they managed to catch up with me.”

John stopped breathing as Sherlock’s words downed on him. He grew pale and cold, and his lips trembled as he stared at Sherlock with a look of utter horror.

Sherlock had still been healing when he had come back.

 John had thrown Sherlock to the ground. He had hurt Sherlock while the man was still recovering from who knows how many rounds of torture. He had not even asked if the man was ok; he had just assumed he was, because he was Sherlock.

John felt like he had been punched square in the face. He felt filthy; he didn’t deserve Sherlock. He had hurt him so much, in so many ways, because he had seen but not observed.

He wrapped his trembling arms around Sherlock, resting his head in between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he struggled to control the impending overflow of pain and anger.

“I’m so sorry,” John choked. He kissed Sherlock’s spine, feeling his back expand as the man breathed in. “I’m an idiot. I never thought- God, I am so, so sorry.” He squeezed Sherlock tighter, and he wasn’t sure whether he was trying to comfort his lover of comfort himself.

Sherlock placed his hand on top of John’s arm, silently caressing him. “It’s over now, John. I’m here, and you are here; that’s all that matters.”

John let his eyes roam Sherlock's back, clenching his jaw at the sight. Sherlock's back was a web of scars, some long and jagged, some short and deep. There were some he immediately knew what objects had caused them, but there were some that were so intricate and deep that he had no idea what could have caused them.He  began leaving a trail of kisses, determined to kiss each scar. Each kiss was an apology and a promise never to leave again. He kissed them all, whispering praises in between kisses. He moved Sherlock, helping him lay down again. He kissed him deeply as he took Sherlock’s erection, which had considerably flagged, and began to stroke him slowly.

Sherlock looked down and whined in pleasure as he took in the delicious sight of John’s hand wrapped around his cock.

“Wait, I want…” Sherlock faltered, embarrassed to voice his desires.

 “What do you want, love?” John whispered in Sherlock’s ear, the endearment making Sherlock’s heart skip a beat.

 “I want you to take me.”

 John shuddered. “I don’t have any lube-“

 “Nightstand,” Sherlock said brokenly.

 John reached past Sherlock, yanking the nightstand’s drawer open, and blindly searched for the bottle while he sucked at Sherlock’s neck. He closed his fingers around the bottle at the same time he roughly bit Sherlock’s neck, making him cry out in pleasure. He took the bottle out and opened the cap. He stopped as he realized that the bottle was half empty. He felt an irrational feeling of jealousy burn in his blood and spread like poison inside him. Who had Sherlock slept with? A revolting picture of a faceless man hearing the lovely sounds Sherlock made when touched in sensitive places, fucking his Sherlock, seared his mind.

Sherlock eased John’s frown with the tip of his fingers, bringing him back to reality. John suddenly moved, latching his mouth to Sherlock’s neck and sucking harder than before, wanting to mark him.

 “Who was it?” He whispered, unable to contain himself.

 “What?” Sherlock asked, his brain too swamped with dopamine to understand the question.

 John raised the half-empty bottle of lube. “Who?” He said with another hard suck and a short, but effective stroke that had Sherlock arching his back.

 “Nhngg, N-No one,” Sherlock said breathlessly.

 John kept stroking him, “liar.”

 Sherlock whimpered, clutching John desperately. “John, you’re being- ah!” John had moved down, swallowing Sherlock’s cock in one go. “Irrational,” Sherlock managed to gasp. “You’re being irration-ah…ah… John!” John swirled his tongue around the head of Sherlock’s cock, making Sherlock’s thighs tremble.

 He let go with a loud popping sound, looking at the panting detective. “Who?”

 “I use it to pleasure myself.”

John engulfed Sherlock again, the wet heat making Sherlock roll his head backwards.

 “You, John… It’s always… It’s only ever been you.”

 John pulled away, letting Sherlock catch his breath.  “Did you touch yourself while thinking of me?” John’s sensual tone, washed with arousal, made Sherlock’s skin tingle and his cock throb with want.

 “Yes,” Sherlock flushed and looked away, feeling a tinge of embarrassment.

 “I want to see that someday,” John said as he squeezed some of the contents of the bottle onto his hand, his primal jealousy finally satisfied.

 Sherlock blushed deeply again, looking away as his heart thrummed in his chest; knowing he had John now, that John was planning to stay with Sherlock, that he _wanted_ this, made Sherlock’s eyes prickle.   

 He gasped as he felt John’s finger penetrate him slowly, and he spread his legs wider to give John more room.

 “Tell me if it hurts, or if you want me to stop at any point.”

 Sherlock winced as he felt the burn of the stretch, but held his tongue.

 “Relax, Sherlock.  It will hurt less, and it will soon feel good, I promise.” John went down on Sherlock again, to distract him from the burn.

 Sherlock’s head fell back as he whispered John’s name over and over again, like a broken record player. John relaxed his throat, taking Sherlock deeper as he added a second finger. He kept going, adding a third finger soon after. Sherlock welcomed the slight pain, which kept his climax at bay. It was frustratingly delicious, and he wanted this to last.

 John curved his fingers slightly, finding his lover’s prostate, and chuckled when he heard Sherlock wail, which was loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Sherlock tugged desperately at John’s hair as the overflow of stimulations brought him closer and closer to the edge. John, understanding the message, pulled away and held the base of Sherlock’s cock, halting Sherlock’s climax like breaks stop a freighting train. Sherlock felt the air leave out of his lungs, making him dizzy.

John kept pumping his fingers in and out, until he whispered “Are you ready?”

 Sherlock nodded with a small smile, enjoying the pool of lust visible in John’s hungry eyes.

 “How do you-“

“I want to see you.”

 John nodded, positioning himself in between Sherlock’s legs and raising the man’s hips slightly, to find a better angle. He pushed in, gripping the sheets to keep himself from pounding into Sherlock. John kept pushing in very slowly, until he was fully seated, and waited for Sherlock to get used to the new sensation.

 “John,” Sherlock’s voice sounded full of wonder, which made John’s eyes twinkle with mirth. “You are inside me. I can feel you inside of me.”

 John’s brain short-circuited at that, and he kissed Sherlock fiercely as he began to slowly rock back and forth, making his lover whimper in pleasure.  He looked at Sherlock, drinking in his messy curls, his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, his bite-marked neck, and his dilated eyes looking right into John’s soul.

 “I love you.” He pulled almost all the way out and thrust in again, still slowly enough to not hurt Sherlock, but faster than before. “I love you so damn much.”

 Sherlock shuddered, memorizing the way John’s voice sounded when saying those words, the way John made him feel.

 “Fuck me, John. I want you to fuck me.” Something inside of John snapped when he heard Sherlock’s filthy words.  He began thrusting harder and faster, growling deeply in his chest. He hit Sherlock’s prostate every time, judging by Sherlock’s loud screams.

“Ah, there… John. I… ah!... harder... John I’m-”

 “It’s ok, love. I’ve got you.”

 Sherlock felt himself break, letting John take all of him and trusting that he’d put Sherlock back together.  Sherlock’s vision went white and his stomach clenched. He felt a blaze of burning pleasure seize him and he came. He clutched John, who had begun pounding into him mercilessly, seeking his own desperate release. John thrust in one last time, burying himself as deeply as he could, and came moaning Sherlock’s name. Sherlock, too, moaned as he felt John’s semen filling him, his walls milking John dry.

 He kissed Sherlock lazily as he held him, feeling the man tremble slightly in his arms. He pulled out his softening cock and got up, bringing back with him a few tissues. He cleaned Sherlock’s stomach and chest lovingly, leaving kisses wherever the wiped had touched Sherlock’s skin.

 Sherlock pulled at John’s arm, too tired and sated to form a coherent sentence. John laid back down next to Sherlock and chuckled as the man wrapped himself around John like a cat.

“I love you,” whispered John, caressing Sherlock’s curls with a sated smile on his face.

 Sherlock felt his heart flutter, and he knew he’d never tire of hearing those words. “And I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, or at least I hope it wasn't too unbearable!


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock woke up as the morning light filtered through the window. He groaned, covering his eyes with the back of his forearm. He rolled towards the right, expecting to find John there and felt his heart stop when he felt nothing but the empty bed. He scrambled to sit up, squinting slightly when the sunlight hit him directly in the eyes.

He felt his heart in his throat. Had he dreamt it all? He looked down, touching his naked torso. He scanned the room, looking for clues that would tell him that it had been real, that his mind hadn't completely broken down.

The bottle of lube was still out, the bed sheets were a mess, and he was still naked, but John's clothes were nowhere to be found.

Had he left?

The color drained from Sherlock's face and his breathing sped up as his mind berated him.

How could he have expected something different? John was married, and Sherlock was his friend. He had probably realized how big of a mistake choosing Sherlock was, and didn't want to muck things up even further. But what was Sherlock supposed to do? Pretend like it never happened? He wasn't sure he could take that. He brought his knees close to his chest and closed his eyes, unable to control the tears rolling down his face.

The bedroom door opened, and John came in with a tray of food.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was filled with worry. He walked quickly towards the crumbling man, levaing the tray on the nightstand, and sat on the bed.

Sherlock's head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly. "You're here."

John wiped the tears of his lover's face, his brow furrowing. "Of course I'm here." John cradled Sherlock's head in his hands and looked right into those painfully beautiful blue eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock remained silent as a faint blush colored his cheeks.

"I was just making breakfast because last night I could practically feel your ribs, which means you've not been eating, and we need to change that." John turned around and picked up the tray, placing it on too of Sherlock's legs, which he had lowered once he realized what John wanted to do.

"Why are you dressed?"

John's face fell. "Mary called."

Sherlock, who had picked up his cup of tea, froze, the teacup inches away from his parted lips.

"I need to talk to her and tell her what happened... I owe her as much." John looked away and rubbed his eyes. "I told her I'd be at the flat soon, but I wanted to make sure you ate first."

Sherlock's heart dropped, John's words making his stomach twist into painful knots. He immediately schooled his face into a mask of indifference as he ate. It was hard to swallow around the knot that had formed on his throat, and so he ate terribly slowly, picking at his plate.

John waited patiently, asking questions about the cases Sherlock had solved in his absence.

"You ok?" John asked, noticing Sherlock's tense posture.

"I'm fine." Sherlock quickly finished his scalding hot tea, still avoiding John's gaze.

John moved closer, kissing Sherlock's eyelids, then his pronounced cheekbones, and finally his lips. He lingered for a moment, enjoying the taste of Sherlock's pliant and eager mouth.

Sherlock buried his fingers in John's hair, unwilling to let go of this beautiful dream just yet. He swallowed John's moans, hoping he could keep them inside him forever. He knew he'd replay those deliciously muffled sounds over and over again, when he was alone again.

He let John go, biting back his tears, and rested his back against the headboard.

"I'll be back soon. Try not to blow up the house while I'm out." John winked at him and left the room, leaving Sherlock alone.

The man closed his eyes and stayed still, listening to John's footsteps. He felt his heart recoil as the door slammed shut.

John would not be back.

Mary would convince him to stay, show him all the things he loved about her. He'd realize that Sherlock had absolutely nothing to offer him other than cases, that this had just been lust.

She would open his eyes, and take John from him once again. Because he'd realize what a terrible catch Sherlock Holmes was. She would kiss him, touch him, and he would forget Sherlock.

Sherlock sank back, curling into himself. He felt fear grip his very soul and pull him down, drowning him. Wasn't it ironic that Sherlock bloody Holmes, the 'high functioning sociopath', had no idea how to live without his heart? And wasn't it just wonderful that he had no idea how to keep the one thing he couldn't- dear god, _couldn't_ \- lose. It was as if the universe enjoyed breaking him. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he had defied nature too many times.

He tried, and failed, to catch his breath. He turned around, burying his head in John's pillow, the scent slowly calming him down. He hugged the pillow and closed his eyes; there was no point in getting up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	8. Chapter 8

John entered the flat to find a fuming Mary sitting at the kitchen table. There was a cup of coffee on the table, and an untouched plate of fruits. Her chair was facing the now open door. She was still wearing her pajamas, and had a warm sweater wrapped around her body.

She bore her eyes down on John, a small sneer twisting her pretty countenance. “The whole night, John.” She stood up, the pits of her eyes swirling with rage. “You were gone the whole night, and I didn’t get so much as a message.”

“I’m-”

“No, John, you don’t get to do that!” She shouted, her eyes turning murderous. “I get caring about your friend, and I know you want to see him and help him solve cases, but you can’t just disappear with Sherlock  without even giving me a heads up.” She moved closer, her eyes never leaving John’s. “I’m your wife John, not your friend.”

“Mary-”

“No, don’t ‘Mary’ me. Just never do that again.”

“Mary, I need to speak to you.”

Mary’s face fell as she took in John’s appearance; there was a purple bruise slightly visible above the collar of his shirt.

“Tell me you didn’t.” Mary tilted her head, her tone as cold as ice. “John, tell me you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

She crossed the remaining space between them in three fast strides and raised her hand, slapping him with steely precision. John touched his cheek, shock written in every line of his face. He hadn’t expected Mary to have such a vicious backhand. He couldn’t say he blamed her though.

“How dare you-”

“I’m sorry, Mary, I really am, but I can’t keep doing this to us.” John straightened up and faced her, steeling himself for another one of Mary’s explosions. “It was always him, Mary. Even when I married you, I… I can’t keep pretending that I’m not in love with him. I can’t do that to you, or to Sherlock.”

“Why would you marry me then, John? If you already knew.”

“Because I didn’t think he’d ever- I had no idea he wanted me that way and-”

Mary raised her hand as she closed her eyes, effectively stopping John. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I am sorry, Mary.”

“No you are not,” She huffed. “Just get out.” She moved towards the door and yanked it open. “Send someone to get your things.”

John looked at Mary for a second before nodding and moving to leave the room. He took off his wedding ring and left it on the coffee table; He was not sure if he was supposed to leave it or not, but he figured that if anyone was to keep it, or destroy it, it should be Mary.

Mary grabbed his arm just as he was about to close the door. She moved closer, looking directly into John’s eyes.

“We would have been great together, you know.”

John looked away and sighed. “I really thought I could forget him, Mary. I thought I could make us work but then-”

“He came back.” The anger and bitterness drenched in her voice made John shudder. “It would have been better if he had stayed dead.”

John jerked back, snatching his arm out of her hands as if she had burned him. “ No, it wouldn’t have-”

“You would have moved on and you’d have been very happy with me. Everything would have been as it should be.”

“No it wouldn’t have been alright. My life without him was unbearable.”

“No, John. It was unbearable until you met me. Don’t try to deny it.” She smiled twistedly, her eyes taking a dreamy look that put John on edge. “ You had already decided to marry me when he came back. You didn’t even want to see him. We were doing just fine, and you didn’t need him anymore.”

John took a step back, unable to stand Mary’s presence any longer. “I’ll always need him, Mary. I-” John rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I should go.”

He whirled around and walked towards his car. never once looking back. He shuddered yet again as a disconcerting sense of fear kindled at the back of his mind and Mary’s predatory smile seared itself into his brain. He had never seen Mary so sadistically detached, as if someone’s death was common talk.

He breathed in and turned on the ignition; everything would be alright. He could finally go see Sherlock.

\-----------------------------------

John shrugged his coat off and hanged it, feeling a weight lift off  of his shoulders. He was truly back home. He breathed in, happy to finally feel whole again. He had forgotten that inexplicable feeling of happiness that made his skin tingle, his blood dance, and made him feel feather light. A feeling only Sherlock could get out of him.

He took off his shoes and his vest, leaving them near the door and making a mental note to bring out his red armchair at some point during the day.

He looked around, finally realizing how quiet it was. Sherlock was never this quiet. He went into the kitchen as he undid his cuffs, and then went into Sherlock’s room, surprised to see the lanky detective still in bed. He laid curled on a ball, in the middle of the bed. The curtains were still closed and so there wasn’t much light coming through, but it didn’t seem like Sherlock had moved since John had left.

John moved closer and laid down next to Sherlock, on top of the covers, grasping the man’s waist and bringing Sherlock closer to him.

He kissed Sherlock’s curls before whispering in his ear “Mind telling me why you’re still in bed?”

Sherlock shuddered, feeling the knot in his stomach, that threatened to make him sick, ease and, in turn, a thousand butterflies begin to flutter inside him.

John had come back.

John kissed the nape of Sherlock’s neck as no answer came forth; he didn’t need an answer. He could finally see it for himself; Sherlock was afraid.

“I’m not going anywhere Sherlock. I’m yours.”

Sherlock turned around and buried his head in John’s neck. “Promise me,” he whispered.

He had never felt this vulnerable, this naked. It was the first time he stripped himself of all his barriers in front of another person; it was the first time he consciously opened the iron chest in order to reveal his beating heart, and it frightened him. It was unnerving to know that John could so easily crush that fragile heart of his, now that there was nothing to protect it.  

But this was John, and John was home, and home was safe. It was ok to let John in, because he wouldn’t shun him away. John had come back. John was holding him, cradling his face, kissing his forehead and then his lips.

“I am forever yours, Sherlock. I love you too much to go anywhere.” He pressed their foreheads together, enjoying the peace of the intimate moment as their breaths melded together. “You’re stuck with me.”

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. He kissed JOhn softly as he trailed his hands down teh other man’s back, making him shiver. “I’d be lost without you, John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hoped you enjoyed the ride!!
> 
> I am not done with this yet; as you may have noticed, I've turned it into a series. I want to explore the aftermath (including Mary's... reaction) of the boys getting together. I have started writing it, and will begin publishing once i finish it.  
> I am also working on another fic, which I'm excited about and will also begin publishing in the (HOPEFULLY) near future!
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. I always love to know what you think!


End file.
